


Unplanned

by spiritbathbomb



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Awkward Romance, Babies, F/M, Other, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, local fan artist who has no business writing attempts to write a fic, trying to raise a child during the advent of an apocalypse, with varying degrees of success
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2018-12-21 23:38:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11955105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritbathbomb/pseuds/spiritbathbomb
Summary: Yamcha ranked this as one of the worst mistakes she could've made in her entire life.  And then everything went downhill from there. (Alternate Universe: in which Yamcha is a woman)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Dragon Ball, Dragon Ball Z, or anything made by Akira Toriyama and/or Toei Animation.
> 
> This is an idea I've had for sometime that unfortunately manifested itself into fic; I'm sorry y'all have to put up with this.

“Can you believe it? Of all the people in the world, I had to go and sleep with that loser.”

Yamcha forced a smile, placing a scarred hand over her stomach. The lurching, queasy feeling that roiled and ultimately died inside a porcelain basin that morning threatened to make a reappearance. She remained seated. Leaving Bulma in this state would break her longtime friend; Bulma’s pride always won over Bulma’s vulnerability, and so Yamcha learned how and when to support the heiress without her mentioning it.

Besides, with her luck, the bathroom would’ve been occupied anyway.

Bulma pushed the stray curls out of her face, laughing in the same, broken way she did when Master Roshi told them of their botched plan to defeat King Piccolo. Feeling her stomach turn somersaults, Yamcha tried to ignore it, focusing her thoughts on whether or not Bulma would find the time to straighten her hair again, now with this. “I mean, it’s all his fault really,” Bulma deflected. “He knew he was supposed to wear a condom. He knows what they are.” The curls fell back, obscuring the way her face scrunched up before she looked away. “He could have asked…”

Yamcha reached out and covered Bulma’s hand gently with her own. “Bulma…”

“Pregnancy tests aren’t accurate, right?” Bulma wouldn’t look at her. “There’s a chance of it being totally bogus, right?”

Yamcha didn’t speak. She didn’t want to tell her of the multiple tests she herself burned through to confirm her own fate. She didn’t want to ask her who it was, to confirm her own fears. Yet Bulma looked at her, expectancy and hope and fear shining in those damning blue eyes Yamcha fell for so long ago. Yamcha sighed. “How many times have you tried?”

“Fifteen.” Bulma was never frugal with her money.

“And each result?” Yamcha asked, despite having a pretty good idea of the answer.

“Mostly positive, although three came back unclear…”

“Oh.” Yamcha looked down, fiddling with the fashion ring on Bulma’s finger. She pushed her nerves down, far below her navel, deep beneath her toes and into the earth. It had to be someone else. After they’d officially broke up, Bulma had always been in and out of Capsule Corp with a new name on her lips every other week. It could’ve been anyone she met on her jet-setting adventures. Anyone. “Have you told him yet?”

Bulma scoffed. “Like that jerk would care. He’s so full of himself if you cut him open, smaller versions of himself would come pouring out.” She crossed her legs. “I should just keep the baby, just to fuck with him. Serves him right to screw over me.”

“It’d never stay out of the tabloids, though.” Yamcha said. It had taken months for The Weekly West to move onto another scandal when they discovered the Capsule Corp heiress was not only dating a notorious desert outlaw, but a woman. King Furry would have to die in a gruesome fashion for that yellow rag to drop Bulma’s wedlock drama. “You should probably just deal with it quietly. Make him pay for child support and leave it at that.” Yamcha wished she had an option as simple as that.

Bulma snorted and Yamcha’s stomach dropped. “Like he has any money! That loser couldn’t even get a job washing dishes with that temper.”

Yamcha worried the ring halfway off Bulma’s finger. “W-Well, in that case, maybe it’s better if you didn’t contact him.” If Bulma’s conquests were anything like him, keeping it a secret would be best for both parties. Or at least tell him over an untraceable phone in an undisclosed location with enough distance between them. For a moment, Yamcha envied her. Having the child of a spoiled trust fund kid would’ve been easier.

A stray lock fell into her face, and Bulma yanked it back behind her ear. “I’m going to tell him. Maybe if he knows he’s going to be a father, he’d actually work with Goku and everyone else.” She laughed bitterly. “Can’t let the mother of his son die due to his own fuck up.” Almost an afterthought, she added, “Can’t say he’s not good in bed, though.”

Yamcha quietly drew her hand away from Bulma’s and looked down, desperate for anything to focus her attention on instead the the heiress. She begged for the earth to open up and swallow her whole, so Bulma’s graphic narration would sound muffled and distorted through seven layers of dirt and rock. She wanted to be buried so deep to where the painful truth could not reach her, where she could still wrap herself in the lie that he only loved her.

Bulma’s eyes flitted between her ring and Yamcha’s face. Her chair scraped across the floor as she moved closer. “Spill.”

“It’s nothing!” Yamcha exclaimed. She wished her voice didn’t squeak. “I’m just worried about you, is all.”

Bulma’s eyebrows knitted together. “This isn’t ‘Yamcha Worrying.’ If you really though you could hide something from your bestie-slash-ex of fifteen years, you’re denser than Goku.” Her nose crinkled in disgust. “No secrets. We promised.”

Yamcha groaned. She wasn’t wrong.

It would be easier to tell her now, then to try to foolishly hide her swollen belly for the next nine months. She took an even, deep breath, steadying herself. “I’m pregnant.”

Bulma gaped at her before a wide, toothy grin slowly spread across her face. Giggling, she clutched Yamcha’s hand within her own. “Shut. Up.”

Yamcha shrugged.

Bulma squealed. “Oh my God! Our babies are going to grow up together! They’ll go to the same school, they’ll have play dates all the time, they’ll be best friends…” Bulma sighed. “This is so exciting! And it’s about time, too!”

“Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb. It was a matter of ‘when’ that you and Tenshinhan finally got together.” Bulma wrinkled her nose again. “Which means I owe Oolong money. Damn.”

“W-wha? You… You bet on me?!” Yamcha shrieked. Her face felt hot. It was obvious to anyone that the defected Crane School disciple was in love with her. Once they exchanged barbs for olive branches, Tenshinhan never seemed to be far from her. He always sought her opinion and company; brought trinkets and rare spices for Yamcha to try in her cooking whenever he returned from an extended journey. He ignored the advances of several women, even rejecting Launch’s affections for the possibility of Yamcha returning his own. But Yamcha felt it impossible to oblige him; after the years spent training together and aiming to best one another, Tenshinhan felt more to her like a brother than a boyfriend.

That didn’t stop, as Yamcha realized yet again, nearly everyone from trying to play matchmaker between them, however.

Bulma waved her off. “It was only like a couple thousand zenni. Chump change. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

A “couple thousand zenni” could easily pay off the monthly rent of a luxury apartment in a choice district of West City. Yamcha kept the fact to herself—sometimes it was easier to bite her tongue than “force” a different perspective onto Bulma. “You can keep your money. Tenshinhan and I didn’t sleep together.” She paused, then added, with finality. “And we aren’t going to be together. Ever.”

Disappointment flashed across Bulma’s face. You aren’t the type to pick up random guys, Yamcha. No offense.”

Whether it was a statement of her personality or a dig at her looks, Yamcha wasn’t certain. Still, her face burned.

Bulma tapped the table with a freshly manicured nail. “It’s not Krillin’s, is it?”

“No!”

“Just making sure.” She cast Yamcha a wary look. “Still, it has to be someone we know. You’d run away if a guy approached you in a church. And right now, the pool is very small.”

Yamcha fiddled with a lock of her hair and looked away. She wished she could stall for time.

“Are you sure it’s not Tenshinhan’s? I promise I won’t tell anybody.”

“Even if it was, your mother counts as ‘anybody,’ Bulma.” Yamcha said quickly. “Besides, it’s not like you’re eager to tell me who knocked you up, so I shouldn’t have to tell—”

“Vegeta.” Bulma said, plainly and unconcerned as if someone had asked her to describe the weather. “I mean I thought it was obvious, but just in case you didn’t know.” She waved her hands.

If the Androids broke into Capsule Corp right now and obliterated everyone inside, Yamcha would not have minded. She’d ask them to end her first.

Bulma pointedly cleared her throat, raising her eyebrow when Yamcha flinched. “Well? No secrets, remember?”

It took all of Yamcha’s resolve to not bolt from her seat. Gripping Bulma’s hand, she nodded. “Right. No secrets.”


	2. Chapter 2

Yamcha sighed as she gathered the pieces of shattered porcelain on the kitchen floor, careful not to cut her fingers along the sharp edges. Although her hands bore numerous blemishes and old wounds from battles and training, she wasn’t eager to ruin them further. She couldn’t rely on the hand cream Bulma gave her to fix everything.

Her hand hovered over a large shard. _Bulma_. Even after their inevitable and final break-up, the headstrong scientist hadn’t left her side, ready and willing to find the solution to all of Yamcha’s problems, regardless if she asked for her assistance or not. Whenever she stalled on a problem in one of her experiments, she cornered Yamcha and bullied her into letting her solve hers. “Good exercise for the brain,” Bulma would always say, “to look at other problems before trying to solve your own. And sometimes, you can find the solution you were looking for in someone else’s problem.” And looking back, Yamcha reflected, all of Bulma’s earlier prodding was an attempt to figure out her own mess.

She placed the shard among the others inside a plastic bag before tying it off and putting it in the garbage. Before Bulma learned that Yamcha was “a part” of her mess.

As she swept up the rest of Bulma’s tea cup, Yamcha wondered if she should make dinner. Whenever they got into fights during their courtship, Bulma would scream herself hoarse and storm off into her lab, curses and sobs drowned out by the sound of metal banging against metal and the whir of high-speed power tools. Days would pass before Yamcha would see her again, and when Bulma was finally willing to tolerate her presence she always looked hollow and haggard, clutching the stack of dirty plates Yamcha had left at the lab’s door the previous night. The fight drained from her body as she stood before Yamcha, in a pair of greased-stained sweats two sizes too large and cracked goggles hanging like a yolk around her delicate neck, ears and eyes red and curling and uncurling her toes as she tried to find the right words. And, like always, before Bulma could stutter an apology, Yamcha would close the gap between them and ask what she wanted for breakfast, kissing her forehead and whisking away the plates before the scientist could respond. And everything would go back to the way things should be.

But something small and cold within Yamcha took hold of her heart and whispered: _this is different._

Yamcha ran her fingers through her hair. She needed time, space to think, to clear her head. She couldn’t stay at Capsule Corp — even if Bulma hid in her lair she still didn’t want to risk a potential blow up — she had to go someplace where people wouldn’t ask questions. Somewhere far and remote from the city; somewhere everyone went when they didn’t want to be found.

Yes, Yamcha thought to herself. She wouldn’t tell anyone — besides Puar, of course — just pack a bag and leave, maybe return to the desert and raise her child there. It wasn’t like the others needed her. She’d fallen so far behind in strength and skill that Goku or Krillin would make up excuses as to not spar with her. Even Master Roshi discouraged her, warning that she “didn’t need another scar on her pretty face.” Tenshinhan would hold back, despite his denial. Even though she dedicated these three years to training, Yamcha knew that she’d be of no help to the upcoming battle. Bulma reminded that to her before she stormed off. Yamcha was nothing more than an easy target. _A liability_. It would be easier if she stayed out of everyone’s way.

Yamcha headed off to her room and found her old duffel bag. Only the essentials for now; she could always head into the villages for proper supplies later. And if money grew tight, she’d just go back to her old, reliable habits.

She found Puar curling himself around her ankle, purring. “I’m sorry Bulma didn’t take the news well, Lady Yamcha.”

Yamcha gathered Puar in her arms and scratched behind his ears. “Didn’t mean to be so loud,” Yamcha replied sheepishly. “I bet half of West City knows our business now.”

Puar didn’t respond. He stared at Yamcha’s sloppily-packed bag before flying off to his corner. He came back with a small capsule and tucked it into one of the bag’s side pockets. “I wanted to be prepared.” Puar explained. “Just in case.”

For the first time that afternoon, Yamcha smiled. Good, faithful, always at-the-ready Puar.

Puar kneaded the bag, batting away at the zipper. “Still, are you _sure_ you want to leave? We’ll need all the help we can get if you’re going to keep it…”

“It’s better this way,” Yamcha said. “If we run into trouble we can always just see the village doctor.” Although said village doctor was a good day’s drive from the desert, and relied on herbal remedies over backed research and expensive procedures, Yamcha felt it was best not to mention it.

Yamcha heard a soft knock at the door and froze. “Yamcha, please come out.” Bulma pleaded. She knocked on the door again, this time fiddling with the handle. “Please. I just want to talk.”

Yamcha started for the door, then stopped. No. This is different.

Bulma rapped her knuckles against the door again. “C’mon, Yamcha. You know I didn’t mean all that stuff I said. Just come out and we’ll make dinner and forget all about this.”

“No.” This is different. This _will_ be different.

The knocking stopped.

Bulma growled as she jerked the door’s handle, threatening to tear it off with one hand as she banged against the door with the other. “Yamcha!” She cried. “Yamcha! Open this door right now!”

Yamcha slung her bag over her shoulder and tucked Puar under her arm as she made her way to the window. Taking a deep breath, she leapt out, flying off into the horizon and leaving Bulma to scream at an empty room.

This will be different, Yamcha thought to herself. She was certain of it.

~

When Yamcha finally touched down, she found herself staring at the wasteland where she first met Bulma and Goku, stretched out across the pink horizon. She readjusted the pack on her shoulder, tucking away the old memories that bubbled to the surface. Her old hideout wasn’t far from here; even if she drove her Mighty Mouse, she’d reach it in about half an hour. Flight was more convenient.

Yamcha dug into her bag and threw the capsule, smiling as her old vehicle materialized out of a puff of smoke. “Come on, Paur.” Yamcha said as she climbed into the car. Nostalgia wouldn’t hurt.

~

Yamcha let out a low whistle as she surveyed her old home. Cobwebs and dust covered every surface of the hideout, wrapped within a stale stench that reminded her of emptiness. She’d have to clean this place from top to bottom if she expected to live here, let alone raise a child.

She frowned. Would Goku and the others _really_ be alright against the Androids without her? From the way those two mysterious boys spoke of them, they were not the average threat. All of their future counterparts died against them, and if they weren’t careful, the boys warned that they would meet a similar fate. But deep down, Yamcha knew that she wouldn’t be able to catch up to the rest of them in time. The setbacks and scars Yamcha endured over the years from training meant nothing compared to Goku’s raw talent. Whereas Krillin and Tenshinhan were always a step behind him, Yamcha was still at the starting line, destined to never catch up. They were _fine_ without _her_. They wouldn’t need her; miss her.

Yamcha bit her lip to keep herself from crying. No wonder Vegeta toyed with her. If he thought her a valuable asset for the upcoming battle, he wouldn’t have dared. But he didn’t.

Puar coughed, startling her. She hadn’t noticed that her longtime friend had already started cleaning; the poor cat had a thick layer of dust all over his fur. “We might have to get rid of the bedsheets, Lady Yamcha.” Puar sputtered. “They smell too musty to be salvageable.”

Yamcha nodded and stripped off the bed. “Don’t worry yourself over that. I packed some fresh ones.” It was probably safer that way too, Yamcha thought.

It didn’t take long for Yamcha’s old hideaway to return to its former glory. Yes, they would have to replace a few carpets and other various linens before the baby arrived, but for now, Yamcha felt that this would do quite well enough.

After a short bath, Yamcha settled into the bed with Puar curled up at her side. “We can go into the village tomorrow for supplies,” Yamcha said. They hadn’t packed any food, and she wanted to gather as many baby supplies as quickly as possible. She knew that she wouldn’t have anyone else to rely on when the child grew larger.

“Do you think that old carpenter is still around?” asked Puar. “We could get him to make a crib.”

“If not, maybe his apprentice. It’s been a long time.”

Puar seemed to be contemplating something. His ears flattened against his head and his tiny brow furrowed as he stared at his paws. “Do you think Bulma is still mad?”

Yamcha rubbed behind Puar’s ears, earning an appreciative purr. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just going to be us now.”

It didn’t matter, Yamcha thought. It didn’t matter and it shouldn’t matter.

Things were different now.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look who's finally back...

A shrill cry jolted Yamcha awake and she scrambled out of the bed, tumbling gracelessly to the floor in a heap of bed sheets and cat fur.

A blurry Bulma appeared from the edge of her vision, arms akimbo and her perfectly curled hair tangled. “You have _no idea_ what you put me through.” She choked out.

Yamcha’s vision finally cleared and she gathered herself from the floor. She narrowed her eyes at Bulma, willing herself to ignore how red Bulma’s eyes looked, and how rumpled her clothes from the previous day hung on her frame. “As if you’re innocent in this. _You_ kicked me out.”

“I didn’t—” Bulma stopped herself, then started again, the caustic bite gone from her voice. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it, really. I was just really angry… I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that.”

Yamcha turned away from her. “Oh, please. You said what everyone else was already thinking.” A fine time for Bulma to show up, Yamcha thought bitterly. And an even finer time for her stomach to start turning somersaults again.

“That’s not true!” Bulma grabbed Yamcha’s arm. “You’re needed just as much as everyone else. Let’s go home and—”

“This _is_ my home.” Yamcha snapped.

“It’s a dusty old hovel,” Bulma retorted, strengthening her grip on Yamcha. “It’s no place for you and it’s definitely not a place for a _baby_.”

“I won’t live with you.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’ll live with Master Roshi.”

“Over my dead body.” She paused, then added, “And then I’ll haunt you forever.”

“Master Roshi would probably then hold a seance just so he could see your boobs.” Yamcha stifled a snort.

Bulma giggled. “Then I’d just burn his dirty mag collection. Ghosts can do that, you know.” Her grip on Yamcha’s arm softened. “Hey. I’m sorry.”

Yamcha turned to face her. “I’m sorry, too.”

Bulma hugged and pecked Yamcha on the cheek. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s that slime ball! Coming in between two women like that. He’s lucky he’s not on this planet right now.”

“He’ll come back eventually.” Puar supplied. She sounded disappointed.

“Exactly,” Yamcha said as she pulled away from Bulma. “You wanted to keep an eye on him and you still can, but I’m not going to be around while you do it.”

The heiress’ shoulders drooped. “I already told you that you aren’t staying here.”

Yamcha shrugged. “I’ll get an apartment or something. That’ll make you happy, right?” Even if it cost more than she could afford, it was better than to be living under the same roof with a rat.

Frowning, Bulma grabbed Yamcha by the arm and dragged her outside, towards her idle hover car. “At least home and eat some food.” She grumbled, shoving Yamcha into the passenger’s seat before settling into the opposite side. “You’re eating for two now, so no more meal skipping from now on.”

Puar hopped onto Yamcha’s lap, clutching a capsule to his chest. “Your bag is in here, Lady Yamcha.”

Yamcha side as the hover car sped off. “Thanks, Puar.” She thought this would be different.

~

It was a quiet trip back to Capsule Corp. Every time Bulma tried to start a conversation, Yamcha would sigh and look out the window. The fighter knew Bulma regretted everything that led them to this, and although they forgave one another, a small part of her wished that she hadn’t. Why should she forgive the person who not only lured Vegeta away from her, but swore Yamcha went back to her alleged and unfounded “unfaithful” ways? The person who mocked her for retiring from tournaments after too many losses?

What was she thinking? Vegeta was never hers to begin with and Bulma never cared for sugarcoating and tact. Yamcha listened to Bulma drumming her fingernails against the steering wheel, a nervous habit she never seemed to break. Yamcha bit her lip. She wondered if Bulma felt the same way, only keeping the appearance of forgiveness as to not cause further discord within their group. They couldn’t afford it right now.

But Yamcha wondered if she wasn’t of any use to anyone, why would it matter?

A thick blanket of dark clouds had formed in the sky by the time they arrived at Capsule Corp. Bulma only made it halfway up the driveway when she gasped and slammed on the breaks. Yamcha held Puar tightly to her chest so he wouldn’t hit the dashboard, cursing when his claws sunk into her skin.

_“What the hell, Bulma?!”_

Bulma ignored her. The scientist slammed the hover car’s door and stormed towards the dilapidated spaceship on the front lawn.

Yamcha clutched Puar tighter to her chest and sunk into the car seat.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your two-timing face here, jackass!” Bulma screamed.

Vegeta snorted as he descended from the spaceship. “You should be grateful I even bothered to return to your miserable planet, let alone spare it.”

“You pompous, balding, troll doll! As if I even want your slimy ass around! We’re pregnant because of you!”

The Saiyan balked. “We’re?”

“Yamcha!” Bulma shrieked. “Get out of the car!”

Yamcha remained in her seat. Bulma screamed in frustration. Yamcha locked the door.

Vegeta sighed. “You don’t know a damn thing about Saiyans, do you?”

“Like that’s supposed to mean anything.” Bulma retorted, hands on her hips. “It doesn’t fix what you did.” From the safety of the car, Yamcha found herself agreeing with her.

“If that third rate warrior knew any better, he would’ve told you that every Saiyan male takes two mates. It’s normal for our kind. Royalty typically have a harem to themselves, but as you are aware, your planet leaves _much_ to be desired.”

“That sounds like a load of bullshit.” Bulma said. “Chichi is enough for Goku.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know any better, raised around the likes of _you people_. If he had any sense about him he would have taken another mate by now.” Vegeta smirked, stepping forward towards Bulma. “But enough about that idiot. To be honest, I’m surprised this didn’t take very long at all.”

“You… You _planned_ this?” Bulma glowered at him. “As if I’ll ever let you put your slimy paws on me ever again. And you can forget about being a part of my child’s life, too!” She stormed off into the house, slamming the door behind her.

Yamcha sensed Vegeta’s ki drawing closer to the car. He stood at the door, arms folded, almost as if he expected her to cave and let him in.

“Mouse. Open the door.”

“No.”

Vegeta sighed. “I’m quite capable of ripping this door off. Only the goodness of my heart is keeping me from doing so.”

“This is Bulma’s car. And besides, your heart doesn’t have a speck of good in it.”

Vegeta nearly swore. “Just open the door!”

“As if!” Yamcha shot back. “Just go away!”

Vegeta growled. His grip crushed the door’s handle, and Yamcha scrambled to the driver’s side of the car. “You think you can just order me around…”

For once, Yamcha was grateful for Bulma’s habit of leaving her keys inside the ignition. While Yamcha coaxed the car to life, Puar had latched himself to the window, fur bristling and fangs bared. “Leave Lady Yamcha alone, you creep!”

“Stay out of this, hairball!” Vegeta shouted. “Yamcha. Listen to me.”

“Just leave me alone!” The hover car engine finally started. “I never want to see you again.”

Vegeta’s voice softened. “We can talk about this. Just open the damn door.”

Yamcha could’ve sworn the Saiyan tensed when she glared at him. They stared one another down for a moment, before Vegeta relented and stepped back from the car. She sped off and didn’t look back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated whether or not to just add this part to chapter 2, then accidentally uploaded chapter 2 anyway. Oh well.
> 
> Also, I think I got carried away with Vegeta's dialogue in this. Actually this short chapter is really dialogue heavy. Sorry, y'all.


	4. Chapter 4

Yamcha could only hear the constant hum of the hover car as she tore across the countryside. They’d left West City hours ago; what Yamcha could make out of the blurred landmarks she didn’t recognize. It didn’t matter to her. As long as she drove somewhere no one knew her, it was better. She couldn’t go back to Diablo Desert—Bulma had already hunted her there and would’ve set up a network by now. Kame House was no better. Not only was Bulma unafraid of Master Roshi’s lecherousness, the possibility of stoking her teacher’s disappointment even further by showing up unskilled and pregnant kept her from the island. The Son household wasn’t a consideration. Yamcha could not find it within herself to be so selfish as to press her situation upon them on short notice. Her only option lay out in the countryside.

“We should find a place to stop soon, Lady Yamcha.” Puar said quietly from the passenger’s seat, his beady eyes fixed on the dashboard.

“There probably isn’t anything for miles.” Yamcha replied. The only sign of civilization was a dirt road that wound between the mountains and Yamcha wasn’t certain if the path led to a village. If Bulma had taken one of her updated models when she went to the desert, Yamcha could have used the car’s geo-map to find the nearest town. Unfortunately, Bulma rarely took out the newer cars, and only if she had good reason.

Maybe it would be safer to turn around, Yamcha thought. She didn’t know where this road led, _if_ it let to anywhere or anything. In any other circumstance, Yamcha would not have minded. Before she met Bulma and the others, she roamed uncharted wastelands, sought precious jewels hidden deep within dangerous ruins; challenged violent opponents thrice her size over a slight. But now, with this child growing inside her, Yamcha wondered if whatever lay at the end of this road would damn them before birth. Capsule Corp was safer. Routine. Easier. Easier than driving along a rocky path and praying that it leads you and your unborn child to _something_.

Yamcha bit her lip. She couldn’t go back, not if Vegeta still expected Bulma and her to live to his demands. Goku and the others could spare her.

The hover car shifted violently, the comforting hum drowned out by a shrill, rapid beeping. Yamcha forced the car to the side of the road as it slowed to a stop, landing with a solid “thud” in the dirt. Yamcha stared at the dashboard and frowned. The vehicle’s “low battery” signal flashed rapidly in the near darkness. Yamcha growled and turned off the engine.

Puar crawled into her lap, purring. Smiling, Yamcha sighed and ran her hand alongside his fur. “Sorry, Puar.”

“It’s okay.”

Yamcha ran her free hand through her hair. She doubted the car had a spare battery; the trunk was too small for such equipment to fit. The newer models had the space and design to keep an extra charged. The older models expected one to plan ahead—something Yamcha always had trouble with.

Huffing, she unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped out of the car. Puar floated after her and around to the opposite side, hissing at the damage. “Miss Bulma should make him pay for the repairs. The handle’s clean off.”

Yamcha winced. She’d forgotten about Vegeta’s “attempt” to open the door. She wasn’t sure whether she should be grateful for Capsule Corp’s thorough design compliances, or Vegeta’s refusal to understand basic earthling technology.

“We’ll see if it can be fixed later,” Yamcha said before sealing the hover car inside a spare capsule. A dead car wouldn’t be a problem; they could still fly across the mountains and would reach wherever they were going at a faster rate. She could always rummage through a junk yard and weld a new handle to the door later.

The clouds rumbled and Yamcha felt the first droplets of rain on her face before the sky opened to a downpour. Puar yelped and scurried to Yamcha’s chest. Yamcha covered him the best she could; she didn’t have a jacket and her sleeves were already wet. She cursed. Flying would be too dangerous now. When Tenshinhan took her aside to teach her flight, of all the precautions he mentioned, the former Crane student emphasized to never fly in the rain. When Yamcha teased him about it, Tenshinhan explained of how a fellow Crane student fell from the sky during a thunderstorm. She hadn’t pressed him further after that.

“The sooner we find shelter, the better.” Yamcha assured, stroking the top of Puar’s head. She’d hoped that her words provided what little comfort to the both of them. They didn’t have much else.

~

The rain fell at a steady rate as Yamcha continued along the mountain path. She tried to keep as close to the trees as possible—a brief respite from the downpour—and the muddied dirt path, but the farther she walked, the less trees that circled around the mountain. She wouldn’t dare climb it; the rocks were too slippery and if she took her chances she’d either suffer from a broken limb further down or dead at the mountain’s base. Her only choice was to walk.

Again, she wondered if it would be too late to turn back. Although she didn’t recognize this part of the country, Yamcha recalled that she hadn’t made any (too many) detours during her flight from Capsule Corp, and could easily (possibly) find her way back. Bulma would no longer have to worry about her whereabouts, while Dr. Brief would chide her about running off in the middle of a storm while helping Mrs. Brief find the warmest blankets in the house. In time, Bulma would forgive her for running off (again), and everything would go back to normal.

Yamcha’s eyes stung and she hastily wiped the moisture away. She knew she was stupid for even thinking things were the slightest bit “normal.” Normalcy was making up with your ex-girlfriend after a petty fight. Unwittingly sharing a sperm donor masquerading as a lover with your ex-girlfriend was not.

Puar’s tiny face peered out from the safety of Yamcha’s jacket. “Lady Yamcha! Look! I think I see something way over there.”

“Your eyes are better than mine, Puar. I can’t see anything.” Puar always had exceptional vision, but the fact that he could see anything in this storm surprised her.

“Keep walking east, Lady Yamcha!” Puar squeaked, vibrating in Yamcha’s grasp. “Maybe it’s abandoned, and we can use it for the night. Maybe we can Capsule it!”

Yamcha hurried as best as she could through the wet grass and mud. As she drew closer, Puar’s mewls grew more frantic. Yamcha squinted in the darkness.

A house sat within a grove of trees in the distance.

It wasn’t anything of note; an early model Capsule house designed for efficiency, one meant for occasional camping. If Yamcha had mused on it longer, she was certain she nicked a few similar models from naive tourists wandering the desert years ago.

“There’s smoke coming out the chimney. I think.” Yamcha said.

Puar gave a low growl in displeasure.

“They could still be hospitable, Puar.” Yamcha warned.

“And if they aren’t?”

“Who would turn away a soaking wet girl lost in the middle of nowhere?”

At that, Puar frowned. “The city really has made you soft, Lady Yamcha.”

Yamcha rolled her eyes as she knocked on the door. Although Puar had readily accompanied her to West City and settled, the feline retained some of the less scrupulous habits she taught him in the desert, occasionally appearing from time to time. Particularly whenever Puar perceived someone or something as a “threat” to her. After the 23rd Budokai, it had taken months and countless assurances from Yamcha to convince Puar to stop “terrorizing” Tenshinhan for breaking her leg. A small part of Yamcha wondered if Puar always possessed a penchant for violence, or was just overprotective. She hoped it was the latter.

Yamcha knocked on the door again, harder. Someone had to be inside. She rapt fist against the door, urgent.

Yamcha paused when she heard a muffled shuffling sound approach the door, followed by the sound of metal sliding against metal. The door opened by a hair before swinging violently open. Yamcha’s stomach dropped as she forced a smile to the bewildered man towering over her.

“Yamcha?” The man sounded almost hollow, with sleep and confusion thick in his gravelly voice.

“Hey, Tenshinhan.” Yamcha croaked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Real life has been very, very hectic of late. But rest assured, I haven't abandoned this story.


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment, Tenshinhan considered closing the door and returning to bed. He’d remembered far too many dreams that started like this, how they meandered into sudden and passionate kisses, where they soon found themselves divested of all clothes and common sense, wrapped around one another with sated declarations of love on their lips before the pinpricks of dawn light roused him awake. For a moment, he wondered if the stories of the forest the locals warned him and Chiaotzu of desires kept secret manifesting into physical temptations, lures demons used on unsuspecting travelers. And for a moment, he thought to send her back to Capsule Corp, recognizing this as the same result of yet another fight with the woman he envied. And yet as Yamcha stood before him, shivering in the thin T-shirt clinging to her slight form, a tentative grin on her face in spite of it all, Tenshinhan could not find it in his heart to turn her away.

Her grin faltered slightly in the dim light. “Usually you’d invite me in by now,” Yamcha said, laughing. He could see her teeth chattering as she spoke.

Tenshinhan stepped aside, closing the door quickly behind Yamcha once she stepped inside. “Forgive me. I was sleeping when you knocked on the door,” He paused, searching for the right set of words to make his half-lie more plausible. “I am… not quite awake just yet.”

Yamcha let go of a squirming Puar and turned to him, looking sheepish. “Sorry about that. To be honest, I didn’t know you were way out here. Figured you’d go for the mountains or—”

Tenshinhan held her firmly by the arms, reminding himself to _only_ take the necessary assessment of her current state, and to not linger on any… distracting assets. Regardless if she’d had another fight with Bulma or not, Yamcha had been in the cold rain far too long than she should have and was only increasing her risk of hypothermia the longer she blathered on. “You should get out of those clothes.” Before she had a chance to respond Tenshinhan herded her towards the bathroom.

Capsule House washrooms tended to be efficient; a small shower with enough space to turn around in without bumping into the toilet and a sink a hand’s length away. However, on occasion Capsule Corp would release models that had “luxury comforts,” such as a full bath. Tenshinhan was grateful he’d “indulged” on a premium model. He’d really only use the bath if his muscles ached from training; the shower was quick and satisfactory to his needs. But Yamcha, he wanted to provide her what little comfort he had in his temporary home.

He remained in the lavatory until the water was both deep and warm enough to his liking. He didn’t turn around, lest Yamcha was already taking her clothes off. As much as Goku insisted that Yamcha was no different from them throughout their youth, Tenshinhan felt that he should at least grant her the privacy they were all denied during their training days. As her friend, he felt that it was the least he could do, even if a small, dark part of him deep down wished otherwise. And despite that Tenshinhan doubted he could bring himself to do such a thing; it was disgusting, and Yamcha was too dear to him.

“Um.” He heard Yamcha start to say something, then stop. Tenshinhan felt a sudden heat rise to his face. He knew he should have left earlier. He made her _uncomfortable_.

“I’m sorry,” Tenshinhan said. He shot upright and scurried to the doorway, keeping his gaze firmly directed to the floor tiles.

Yamcha grabbed his arm. “No… I mean, it’s a little weird, but that’s kinda ‘you,’ anyway.”

_Great_.

“But,” she continued. “It’s okay, really. I know you’re just trying to help, and… I wanted to thank you for that. So, thank you.” She began to laugh. “Besides, I haven’t even gotten naked yet, so you can look. Unless that’s what you’re here for.”

Tenshinhan failed to hold back an exasperated groan. “Yamcha…” Of course she would joke about that.

Tenshinhan felt two small hands against his back as they pushed him out of the door. “Relax, Ten. Just a little humor between friends.” She shut the door softly behind him, still speaking. “Promise not to use all of your hot water!”

Tenshinhan wanted to respond that he would not have minded, but remained silent. It would have seemed _too_ weird, he thought to himself, even if she had already designated him as “the peculiar friend” in her mind. Part of him hated that; that small, selfish part of him that scratched at his heart, rekindling the sharp, biting pain he felt when he confessed his feelings to her. Even now as he searched his dresser for something small enough for Yamcha to wear, he could still feel the weight of that long, agonizing silence that hung between them afterward, heavy and settling on his chest and making it difficult for him to breathe. He remembered her stilted laughter as she clutched the pie tin tightly— _the reason she was there in the first place_ —to keep her trembling hands from dropping it. How she shoved the pastry into his chest without looking at him, mumbling something trite about _friends_ loving one another and a half-hearted lie about baseball practice before flying off. How the pie sat on the kitchen counter for days, untouched, before Chiaotzu set it in the freezer and chastised him about wasting food. And how he aggressively kept moving from place to place to avoid her, convincing himself to accept her rejection and be grateful she hadn’t chosen to severe their friendship, even if he couldn’t find the courage to return her favorite baking tin (that housed the pie that Chiaotzu ultimately ate). It would be best to keep his feelings tucked away, as he should have done in the first place.

Tenshinhan eventually came across an old set of sweatpants and shirt from his youth and set it aside. From a glance he could tell it would be too large for Yamcha; despite her toned physique she was still the smallest out of the “Dragon Team” (Bulma insisted on using that moniker to refer to their lot at every instance, and to Tenshinhan’s chagrin, it seemed to have caught on). He found an old sash and set it with the clothes as well, hoping that it would force everything else to fit her.

Tenshinhan folded the clothes neatly before setting them on the bed and exiting the room. He approached the bathroom, and, after taking a deep breath, knocked on the door. “There is a set of clothes for you in the bedroom. When you are finished, I’ll clean your wet clothing.”

Yamcha made a pleased sound on the other side of the door and his heart fluttered. “Thanks, Ten! I’m almost done.”

“T-take your time. Please.” Tenshinhan forced himself to head to the kitchen. He wasn’t certain that he was prepared to face her just yet after such a long and deliberate avoidance. The back of Tenshinhan’s neck itched, and despite the relatively cool night air, he began to feel a light layer of sweat forming across his brow. He felt like a young pupil about to face his first opponent in a tournament; unfamiliar with both the grounds and his rival’s tactics, unsure of what to expect and uncertain that he would return victorious. Yamcha was his friend— _only_ his friend, as he often reminded himself—but the energy surrounding her felt different, unbalanced and dark, nothing like the rhythmic rolling he’d grown accustomed to over the years. He wondered if she was aware of the unusual and multiple spikes of ki she gave off. And that small, dark part of him wondered if this energy was the result of the final spat between her and Bulma. He hated himself in that moment for even considering the possibility.

Unable to bring himself to wake Chiaotzu as a distraction from his thoughts, Tenshinhan rummaged through the pantry for a tea kettle. Although he preferred coffee, Chiaotzu both leaned towards the milder beverage and strongly suggested that he at least drink it to calm his nerves. Drinking coffee at this hour would only result in the opposite effect, Tenshinhan mused as he began to prepare two cups of loose leaf green tea. Yamcha needed something to calm her energy, and he would be a poor host to not offer something that might help.

He sighed, resting his forearms against the tile countertop as he waited for the kettle to boil. Despite the initial surprise, Tenshinhan knew that this was not the first—and, if things continued along the same path as they were—nor the last time Yamcha fled to him after a fight with Bulma. After living with them that summer at Kame Island, he hadn’t put too much thought into their relationship; Tenshinhan considered it background noise to the cold realization of his defection from Crane School and his new responsibility of Chiaotzu’s welfare. And yet, as the years passed, the pair had not changed. Bulma found some glaring fault she previously ignored and threw Yamcha out for it, while Yamcha would slink off and wait for her to calm down, trying to fix whatever it was that offended the Capsule Corp heiress. Bulma would then forgive her or apologize, and a few months would pass before another upset. He didn’t understand why Yamcha was so willing to endure Bulma’s treatment when he’d witnessed her on more than one occasion shut down a stranger over a snide remark. He wondered if her desperation for marriage blinded her better judgment.

 

* * *

 

Tenshinhan looked up from the counter, finding Yamcha standing in the kitchen’s doorway. As expected, the clothes he’d laid out for her didn’t fit at all; the shirt hung off her shoulders loosely and she had rolled up the pants’ legs so she wouldn’t drag them across the floor. Her tiny feet peaked out from beneath the hems, and Tenshinhan berated himself for not thinking to find her any socks.

He removed his own slippers before handing them to her. “These are probably too large, but…”

Yamcha laughed before putting them on. “You worry too much.” Her energy came off in dark waves.

“You were outside in the rain for the whole night. It’s hours from the nearest road here.” He handed her a cup of tea and guided her to the sofa in the living room. “What were you doing out here?”

Yamcha shrugged, staring into her mug of tea. “Capsule Corp was getting stifling, so I just wanted to get some fresh air, y’know?”

“Fresh air.” Tenshinhan echoed. As expected, it was another fight. “All the way out here.”

“Oh come on, Ten. Even you don’t like to stay in the city for long.”

“That’s not—look. Do you need a place to stay?” He sensed her hesitation and quickly added, “I’m not annoyed, or inconvenienced. Really.” Tenshinhan would not have minded if Yamcha did need somewhere to lay low for awhile; it would not have been the first time she sought his company after a spat with Bulma. He’d always preferred to have her here, rather than constantly worry about her wellbeing (and possibly what was left of her self-esteem) if she stayed at Capsule Corp when she and the heiress were fighting. He told himself it was out of concern for a close friend, and had nothing to do with his selfishness. Mostly.

“We’d like to stay indefinitely.” Puar floated into the living room, clutching a towel and furiously drying his fur with it. He settled on the couch in the space between Tenshinhan and Yamcha, staring at the former Crane disciple expectantly.

Yamcha’s face turned red. “Puar!”

“He wouldn’t mind!” the cat argued. “There isn’t anything else for miles and Miss Bulma’s car is dead.”

Tenshinhan frowned. “Car?”

Yamcha quickly waved her free hand in front of her. “Um! I borrowed it! I mean—Bulma let me borrow it, but forgot to charge the battery… So that’s why! Yes!” She tried to laugh, but it sounded strained. “So! If you could just let Puar and me crash until the battery recharges, that would be great.”

“Bulma let you take one of her cars for a drive after you two had a spat?”

“We didn’t fight!”

“Yamcha, whenever you and Bulma get into it you always try to get as far away from Capsule Corp as possible. We’re at least nine hours away from West City.”

Yamcha pouted and Tenshinhan swore that his heart would give out from how adorable she looked. “That’s not true. I just really wanted to drive.”

Tenshinhan stared at her for a moment, studying her expression. It wouldn’t make sense for her to lie to him, not unless out of pride. But considering how the frequency of the “couple’s” spats was common knowledge, he considered it useless decorum to deny otherwise. In all honesty, Tenshinhan didn’t care if Yamcha had another fight with Bulma. The nature of the quarrel held no interest for him; he only wished it would be the deciding argument that would convince Yamcha to end the failing relationship for good. Unfortunately, Yamcha was brimming with optimism and would predictably once again try to patch things back together.

“My apologies,” Tenshinhan said as he rose from the couch. “Let me get you the phone so you can call her.” He forced himself to add, “She’s probably worried about you.”

At that, both Yamcha and Puar paled. “No!” Yamcha bolted from her seat, then, realizing her action, sheepishly sunk back into the couch. “I mean… It’s alright. She won’t freak out or anything.”

Tenshinhan gave her a look. “This is the same woman who planted a tracking bug in your rucksack the last time you went to the desert to train.”

“She’s come a long way since then. Give her some credit.”

“Are you sure she didn’t put one on your car?”

“Tenshinhan!”

Tenshinhan removed the wireless phone from its cradle and presented it to Yamcha. “Look. From what I know about her… habits, Bulma is probably frantic right now. At the very least, just call to let her know that you are safe. In spite of everything, she still cares about you.”

Yamcha stared at the phone for a moment, then turned away, focusing her attention on the drab green carpet as her hands clenched the extra fabric of her sweatpants. “No… She doesn’t… I mean she doesn’t like being woken up this late. I’d only annoy her.”

“I doubt anyone would find you annoying, Yamcha.” Tenshinhan replied softly. He rose from the sofa and placed the phone back in its cradle. “If you want to leave it alone, then I will not press you further. But please—if something is bothering you, let me help you take care of it.”

For a moment, Yamcha remained quiet. She turned away from him, hastily wiping something from her eye before flashing him one of her infectious, damning smiles. Tenshinhan rarely found fault in his own presumptions, but decided it would be best if Yamcha came to him for advice on her own accord. He was used to waiting. He would wait until Yamcha was ready to talk.

“Can Puar and I stay with you for a little bit? I think the distance might help.”

Tenshinhan smiled softly. “Whatever you need.”

 

* * *

 

This was  _not_ part of the plan.

Vegeta paced back and forth across the Gravity Chamber, after deciding that the more holes he put into the walls would not only do little to remedy his situation, but make the harpy hate him even more than she already did at the moment. After she barricaded herself in her laboratory, he’d seen little of her; choosing to give the woman wide enough berth as possible in the event she decided she wasn’t finished screaming at him. If the harpy had not been carrying his child, Vegeta would have killed her for raising her voice against him. However, the Saiyan wondered if he’d actually go through with the act. He had not surpassed Kakkarot yet, and doubted he would be able to best him if the low-class warrior discovered that he murdered his comrade. No, it would be easier if he avoided her until she calmed down, Vegeta decided. Then, once the harpy was reasonable, he could try persuading her again.

Vegeta huffed. From his limited understanding, typical Saiyan relationships were not commonplace on Earth, judging from the mouse and harpy’s reactions to his proposal alone. Looking back on that afternoon, he should have expected the mouse to not handle it well. She was inexperienced and blinded by expectations of what such intimacy should be like. He’d taken his time with her, giving her only tastes and promises of yet to come if she willingly and readily gave herself to him completely. Her lofty assumptions of “romance” blurred the reality of the situation she found herself in, and she cast the blame at Vegeta’s feet. It wasn’t his fault if she had been too stupid to notice he was pursuing the other woman at the same time; he found it pointless to hide part of what was to be a shared relationship. Still, if he expected to see even a strand of hair on his unborn child’s head, Vegeta knew that he had to not only convince her, but figure out where she’d run off to. It was no secret that among all of Kakkarot’s comrades, the mouse was the weakest of them all. He doubted she would last two days in the wilderness on her own.

Vegeta growled and punched another gaping hole into the wall, revealing the manicured Capsule Corp lawn among the ripped and sparking wires and cables. That was enough to make him worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I'm terribly sorry for taking so long to post this chapter! The truth is that I had gotten so busy with personal stuff that I kind of lost the motivation to work on this fic... But seeing everyone's kind comments rekindled my enthusiasm, and I really want to finish this for all of you! So if you are still keeping up with this story, thank you from the bottom of my heart!


End file.
